The New Normal
by thesevenpercent
Summary: Normal used to be a lack of sleep, bodies in the kitchen, and all the trappings that come with the insanity of genius. What is normal now that Sherlock is dead? Primarily a John/Sherlock story, although they'll be taking a winding road to each other. Post-Reichenbach.
1. Starts and Stops

"Goodbye John."

And then he fell, his Belstaff coat flapping behind him like dark angel wings. John didn't see the impact, and that was probably a blessing. John relived that moment, of Sherlock's arms gracefully lifting, ready to take flight, that beautiful calm before the storm. He still felt the flash of panic that turned into numbness an instant later as his hearing whited out. It had been less than six hours ago, but it felt simultaneously a moment and a lifetime ago. John had known people who died. In the Army, he had known people closely who didn't make it home. He would have, and did, put his life on the line for theirs every single day. When someone had been seriously injured, the language changed. They talked about how things weren't ruined but there would be a new normal in your life. Just because things weren't how they were didn't mean that they couldn't still be wonderful. Was being without Sherlock like that? Would it be like losing a leg? Still able to live, although always missing a piece of you?

He was waiting now at Bart's, for the news that Sherlock had been pronounced dead. It was inevitable. He knew it was inevitable. But that tiny shred of hope flared in him that it was all pretend. "Just a magic trick," Sherlock had said, and maybe it would be a magic trick. What was taking so long though? He had been done with his own treatment hours ago. He had a mild concussion and a little bit of shock, but that was nothing. His nurse was nice. Her name was Gloria. It seemed such a typical name for a nurse. She squeezed his hand while he repeatedly asked for Sherlock, but never gave him any answers.

John stood as Lestrade entered the waiting room, his head pounding. "I'm so sorry," was all he said.

"So that's it then? He's gone?" John couldn't hide the bitterness he felt. Lestrade looked at him sadly.

"We'll have to do some statements with you down at the station, but that can wait for another day. Is there anyone I can call for you?" he asked lamely.

He remembered painfully when he met Sherlock, and he had immediately been able to deduce that there was no one. He was not going to call Harry. Mrs. Hudson? God no. He couldn't tell her that Sherlock was…gone. He simply could not bear that just yet. Hell, Greg was the closest thing he had to a friend.

"There's no one."

"Look John, I'm so sorry about all of this. But I don't think it's a great idea for you to be alone just now. Jennifer's gone, and she's got the kids, so why don't you kip at my place? I've got a spare room and everything." That was not what John wanted. Sorry wouldn't help. Sorry wasn't good enough.

"You played a part in this. You all did. You listened to Sally. You listened to her lies." He didn't shout. It was a quiet condemnation. 'I don't want help from you, or anyone else." Lestrade looked like he'd been punched. John simply walked away, leaving a speechless Greg behind.

He found himself standing outside. The clouds were beginning to gather. He looked over to his left to see a workman hosing blood of the pavement. Bile rose in his throat. Scrabbling for his phone, he found himself calling up the bedsit that he had occupied when he first returned from Afghanistan. "Your old spot is free, Dr. Watson. It's yours if you'd like." He knew two things for certain. One: he wouldn't like to be near anyone else. Two: He wouldn't survive being alone at Baker Street overnight.

Greg caught up to him before he jumped into a cab. "Call me if you need anything, please. I'm told that Mycroft is handling the arrangements." He added in.

"Fine." John answered tersely.

Most people taking out a room in the dull grey building that would be home now were transitory, so there was never much hassle. The rules were simple. Pay up front for the week; don't leave any permanent damage to the place. The bedsit was exactly as he recalled: sparse and built for the solitary. I suppose I am solitary, thought John. Exhausted, more emotionally than physically, he lay back on the bed, thinking of the arduous day that had just passed. If he didn't know better, he would have thought that it had been much longer than it was. Between running back and forth to Bart's and around town and to Baker Street, he can't comprehend. The benefit of being alone was that he could allow himself to slip into grief. He allowed it to consume him. Less than a day ago, he had a best friend. And now, he was truly, utterly alone.

John woke up to the chime of an incoming text message. A quick glance told him that he had missed several more.

**From: Greg Lestrade 8:07**  
**Funeral at 11 on Thursday. Mycroft will send a car.**

**From:Greg Lestrade 8:56**  
**Did you get my last message?**

**From: Greg Lestrade 9:01**  
**John?**

**From: Greg Lestrade 9:22**  
**Are you okay?**

**From: Greg Lestrade 9:25**  
**Answer me dammit.**

John comtemplated ignoring him, but decided it would be better to get Greg off of his back.

**To: Greg Lestrade 9:28**  
**Fine.**

He dialed the person he knew he could talk to right now.

"Hello? Dr. Thompson speaking."

"Ella, its John Watson."

"John! It's been months. How have you been?" He choked back the urge to respond with something like fucking horrendous.

"I..."his voice broke "I think I need some help."

"I have a slot free this afternoon. I'll leave it open for you."

"I'll see you then."

* * *

John went to Baker Street. He had to. He had been wearing the same clothes for two days now, and needed to pick up some more. A shower would be better, but the bathroom was near Sherlock's room, and he just couldn't go near there. He toed off his shoes and went up into his bedroom. It felt different, like someone had been in here, although nothing seemed out of place. He pulled his old army rucksack out of the closet. He shoved clothes into the bag haphazardly, enough for a few days at least. It rounded out everything that he strictly needed, but he tucked his Browning on top, just in case. Looking down at his feet, he noticed a tiny brownish splotch against the white of the sock. Oh god. Sherlock. Sherlock's blood. Sherlock's blood on his sock. He tore them off, panting, trying hard to avoid the swell of emotions. Panic. His heart pounded in his chest. He'd had panic attacks before about Afghanistan, but this…this was worse. He needed to leave this place.

From the bottom of the stairs, he could see into the sitting room. He needed to get out, but something was pulling him in there. He walked in slowly. There was a slight hitch in his step as he went to the chair that was undeniably his, across from the chair that was undeniably Sherlock's. He sat for a long moment, looking at the dimples still left in the leather of Sherlock's chair from the last time he sat there. Now that he thought about it, it wasn't blood on his foot. It was just brown sauce from the last time he ate. He was being irrational. Sherlock wouldn't approve. His thoughts turned back to Sherlock. How many evenings had they sat here, eating takeaway. How many awful bored afternoons had they spent watching crap telly and terrorising the neighbours. How many cases had they sat here and thought through together. But never again. There were a lot of unanswered questions that he had wished he had asked Sherlock. There were so many things he wanted to say, but never had.

He missed the door opening. John didn't look until his name was said. "Dr. Watson, I hadn't anticipated you being here," Mycroft said carefully. Stoic as ever.

"It's my flat, thanks."

"You know what I was referring to, John."

"What are you doing here?"

"I needed a few things of his for the ahem burial. Mummy suggested the aubergine shirt but since you're here did you have any input? You knew him best."

John's face was ashen. "Did you see him?"

"No."

"You did this."

Mycroft carried on like he hadn't heard John. "I didn't want to. The coroner quite agreed. But I cannot have the man buried nude." Mycroft. Always the man of composure, even at a time like this. It was infuriating.

John swung to life from his reverie on the chair. Leaping up, he grabbed the nearest thing he could get his hands on, the ashtray from the Palace all those months ago, and flung it at the wall where it shattered into a million pieces. "YOU DID THIS." He roared.

"John. Please." Mycroft's eyes grew wide.

"You killed him. You as good as pushed him off that sodding roof yourself. You let JAMES FUCKING MORIARTY into his life." He shrieked. "Sherlock is gone. I lost him. I lost the best man I knew." He finished quietly and collapsed back onto the chair.

"And I lost my baby brother." He said sharply, his icy façade slipping. "Don't forget that. No matter how much you blame me, I will always blame myself more." There was an odd look on his face. It was almost like he wanted to hug John, but he did not. He looked away, running his palm through his hair. John couldn't picture Sherlock as a child. Just maybe Mycroft had been a good brother, once upon a time.

"I don't see how fucking monsters like Moriarty get to live, while good men…good men like Sher-…him get to die." Mycroft's head snapped up.

"He's dead John."

"What?"

"Moriarty. He's dead. His body was on the rooftop."

"You better not be lying to me Mycroft. If this is like Irene Adler, and he reappears…"

"I swear to you John, he is dead. And if he hadn't been, don't think for a minute that I would not have hunted to the ends of the earth the man who did this to my little brother. If you'll excuse me, I'll see myself out. I can pick up the things I need later."

He went to open the door to reveal Mrs. Hudson, hand poised to knock.

"I thought I heard a bit of shouting. Are you boys doing well? Are you two having a bit of a domestic again? I swear, you…" she trailed off. John hadn't realized but there were tears on his face. He hadn't cried in two decades, at least.

"Mrs. Hudson, why don't we discuss this downstairs? I was just on my way out. Dr. Watson will need a moment alone." Mycroft swept out, leaving John alone once more.

Several long moments passed. He picked up his phone. "Ella, it's John Watson. I won't be able to make it today. I will call to reschedule later." He hung up before she had time to answer.

John had made up his mind. He needed to get started on his new normal without Sherlock. Grabbing the rucksack from its abandoned position, he left 221B, knowing full well it may be some time before he could bring himself to return.


	2. The Funeral

John hadn't seen anyone since leaving 221B. It had been eerie sitting alone in his tiny room. He had read every single news story he could find on Sherlock, and it was certainly not helping his grieving process. He was mostly trying to makes sense of Sherlock's 'note'. It wasn't adding up. None of it was. He could hear Sherlock's voice in his ear, clear as day. "It's all true…I invented Moriarty…I researched you…" If he had researched John, how could he miss the part about his sister? No one could be that clever. He refused to accept it. It wasn't possible. In a fit of rage, he posted on his blog to that effect. Oh hell. The blog. Ella. He had never rescheduled. Well. It could wait a while. Maybe.

Even though he hadn't seen Mycroft, at 10 am on Thursday morning, a black car rolled up outside his place. A sharp dressed man hopped out and opened the door for John, with the unspoken connotation that he _must _get in. The back of the car was empty at least. He didn't think he could handle Anthea's soulless tapping at the Blackberry today. He hadn't slept last night, but spent a fair bit of time trying to make it seem less obvious. He still knew he wouldn't be able to fool Sherlock or even Mycroft as it were.

The drive took nearly two hours, taking them far into the south. Sherlock had mentioned, months ago now, that his family home was in Sussex. John had never been to a funeral that hadn't been in a church. It struck him now, however, that the Holmes family was probably not a group of churchgoers. It was precisely what John had expected. Perfectly manicured grounds stretching for acres complete with a picture perfect mansion. It was more the place you'd expect the Queen to live, instead of an amateur detective. Mycroft met him at the door.

"Doctor Watson. Do come in."

Mycroft led him into what was probably their parlour, but still larger than the entire flat at Baker Street. For a man who reportedly only had a single friend, the house was remarkably full. Most of the people must be family, judging by the general stoic air and posh pallor that surrounded them. They clumped together in the corners of the room, dabbing at non-existent tears with embroidered handkerchiefs. Despite this, John recognized a few faces: government officials that they had taken on as clients; Sebastian Wilkes chatting with a few blokes in their early thirties who must have been uni lads; Lestrade, with Sally, but not Anderson.

The person who was notably missing was Sherlock.

"He's already been buried, John. We had a private service yesterday." Mycroft said, in the same voice that made John think that he was omniscient.

"We?"

"Me, Mummy, and the people who arranged the burial."

"Oh." John felt a pang of sadness that he had been left out.

"I apologise that I didn't call. Mummy is quite frail, and I didn't want to upset her."

"Oh." Were they expecting him to make a scene? He wasn't crazy. He could handle a funeral, even if it was his best friend.

"Please, excuse me."

John ventured farther into the room. Staff in white coats were making the rounds with hors d'oeuvres and drinks, like a cocktail party. Large windows covered one wall completely, and the light shone through them in a nearly heavenly fashion, illuminating a large photo of Sherlock set in a wreath of flowers. The photo had been taken in his pre-John days. Maybe even ten years ago, back in his early twenties. His cheeks were much hollower than John had ever seen them, showing the signs of rapid weight loss. Even in the photo, it was easy to see that this was taken during his days as an addict. They had never discussed those times. Still, he could see why they chose this picture. He still had the wide-eyed innocence of a young man. His face aglow with fiery determination, split into a wide grin. It was perfect. It was precisely how John would want him to be remembered.

Mycroft had sidled up next to the picture, grasping the arm of a tired and ill looking woman, although she couldn't be older than 65. Was it from illness, or just grief? He helped her into a chair.

"Thank you all for coming. It is here today that we remember the life of Sherlock Holmes, my younger brother." No emotion littered his face. "Sherlock wasn't a perfect man, or a perfect brother, but he was still loved. Those of us who knew him well are sure to recall this." John didn't think Mycroft did know his brother well. "Losing such a bright spirit at a young age is all that more difficult, but it is my firm belief that he made such an impact that he will never be forgotten by those of us in this room. Sherlock and I grew apart as we got older, but that doesn't mean that we were not close. I will hold him in my heart, every day."

Mycroft paused. His hand trembled a little.

"One of Sherlock's oldest friends, Detective Inspector Lestrade wished to say a few words."

Greg walked over. He was looking older than he had just a week ago. John wasn't sure why he was here. Wasn't he facing an inquiry because of Sherlock? "I knew Sherlock for nearly six years. We didn't meet in the best of circumstances, but that didn't matter. He was infuriating at times. He would come to a crime scene and drive everyone off. But he was brilliant. He was the greatest man that I knew. I don't know why he did so many of the things he did, but he had his reasons, and they all made sense in the end." He cleared his throat a little, emotion starting to crack through. "The last year or so, Sherlock had been on fire, professionally. He was like a different man. I think this was because of his partner, John Watson."

John couldn't help himself. "Oh for God's sake. I'm not gay. He's dead and people still don't fucking believe me." Sherlock's mother looked shocked.

"His professional partner. They worked together." Lestrade was bright red, as was John. People were beginning to titter. John made a hasty exit back towards the entryway. He could hear someone come up behind him. "Mycroft. I do not want to talk. I just need to get home."

"It's not Mycroft." John spun around. One of Sebastian's friends, and probably Sherlock's, he thought, from university. He was tall, thin, and handsome.

"Sorry. I thought you were someone else."

"Oh I know. Mycroft has this way of bringing out the anger in people. I'm Victor Trevor," he said, offering a hand. John didn't take it.

"Er, sorry. Why did you come out after me?"

"I wanted to tell you that I know," he said, with a knowing smile.

"You know what precisely?"

"Sherlock. I know how he could be. He lures you in with his danger and cheekbones and he knows you better than you know yourself. You fall for his charms and you're not even sure how. But do you know what? He was a predator. Sherlock Holmes, master manipulator. He knew exactly what to do to get you on his side and into his bed."

John's fist contacted the side of Victor's face. His hand hurt, but he knew how to throw a punch. The wiry man's face must be aching worse than his fist. He wound back to throw another when he heard a voice, this time definitely Mycroft's.

"Doctor Watson, please refrain from fisticuffs at my brother's memorial service." John dropped his arm. "Excellent. Now, Mr. Trevor, your car is waiting just outside. John, come with me, we have things to discuss." He grabbed John by the shoulder at steered him around a corner and up a flight of stairs.

They walked silently along a series of winding hallways. _Jesus, how big is this place_, John wondered. Eventually they reached the open door that led to what was certainly Mycroft's office.

"Sit, please." He half pushed John into an uncomfortable wooden chair opposite a severe looking desk.

"I don't want to discuss what just happened, so I'll be on my way, if you don't mind." He went to stand up, but Mycroft's hand on his shoulder held him back.

"I don't either. That was not the first punch you've thrown for my brother, and I would be surprised if it was the last. Someday, we may have a frank chat about Mr. Trevor. Fortunately for him, we have other matters to discuss at the moment."

"I can't imagine what you would have to say to me."

"Ah, still with the anger." Mycroft smirked. "No, Dr. Watson, I actually wanted to speak with you about pressing legal matters. Sherlock has left you everything."

"Everything?"

"You do know how Sherlock detested repetition. A trait we share, I'm afraid." Mycroft answered with an eye-roll. "Every possession that my brother had to give, passed into your possession on his death."

"What exactly is that?"

"The simple things, of course: clothes, books, other personal effects. There are a few larger articles as well, however. The flat at Baker Street has been paid for, in full, until December 31st of next year, so you are entitled to live there now, rent free until that date. Our father also left us each a generous trust fund. Sherlock's access had been limited for obvious reasons, but it's now all yours. As well, you now own half of our country home in Hampshire. His violin is also appraised at nearly a million pounds." John didn't know what to say. In a few moments he had gone from unable to pay the rent next month to a multimillionaire. He had always figured the Holmes family to be wealthy beyond belief. This was evident in Sherlock's flippancy about accepting money for cases, but he had never flaunted his cash. And if he was sitting on this, why did he bother getting a flatmate in the first place?

"Why me?"

"You say so often that you and Sherlock were not together, but you were certainly the closest thing he had. He had no one else to give these things to."

"He could have given them to you."

"I firmly believe that he wanted to see you looked after. He cared about you, John."

John felt overcome with emotion. Sherlock cared enough to make him a wealthy man, but not enough to avoid killing himself in front of him. "I'd like to go home."

"And here is home, John? Will it be back to 221B, or to that horrid little room you've taken?" John didn't even bother asking how he knew about the bedsit.

He took a deep breath. It would be so easy to go back to 221B, and pretend that nothing had changed. He'd walk through the door and everything would be normal. But no…it wouldn't.

"Back to the bedsit, thanks."

"As you wish, John."


	3. Healing

Beta'd by the phenomenal **WhirligigSwirl**

* * *

The day after the funeral would forever be remembered as the day John officially lost it.

He spent the rest of the day after the funeral feeling numb. He didn't sleep that night, and he couldn't remember the last time he had eaten. Time lost all meaning, and before he knew it, daylight was streaming in through the dirty window of his bedsit. His phone was lit up, indicating a new voicemail from Mrs Hudson. He hadn't heard it ring. After a moment, he clicked it open, mind wandering as he listened, only processing about every third phrase.

"Missed you at the funeral…clean out the flat…come by for tea…taking care of yourself…"

He didn't call her back. He just went.

* * *

Standing outside 221, Baker Street, John took a deep breath, and then rapped softly on the door. He shifted restlessly for a few moments, then knocked again. No answer. He looked down for a moment. He could swear he heard Sherlock say in a bored tone from somewhere behind him, "_Mrs Hudson must be at Mrs Turner's for tea". _His head snapped up, eyes searching frantically for the origin of the voice. But there was no one there.

"Right then. Let's get on with this," he muttered to no one in particular.

221B was much like he remembered leaving it, although it now contained the notable addition of a stack of flattened cardboard boxes just inside the door. Probably Mrs Hudson's doing. "Right then," he repeated to himself, gusting open a bin liner.

The kitchen was the easiest (and most obvious) place to start. The things that needed to be tossed in there were obvious, and while John liked to think he had a strong stomach, the experiments in the fridge were, frankly, quite alarming.

Within an hour, he had thrown out at a dozen eyes, three hands (from three distinct bodies), five feet, one head, one ear, and several pints of unmarked assorted fluids from the freezer. The interior of the fridge as well as the surrounding countertops all then received a vigorous scrubbing-down. When he had collected everything destined for the trash, he started in on sorting out the rest of their belongings.

John assembled two boxes. He labelled the first "KEEP" in block letters, and the other "TOSS". The table that dominated the centre of the kitchen was still covered with the debris from Sherlock's many cases and experiments. Notebooks written in something akin to hieroglyphs littered the surface, as well as flasks, beakers, and the microscope Sherlock had nicked from Bart's. He flicked idly through a small notebook that had been left open beside the microscope. Sherlock's looping, messy writing stared back at him. The words didn't mean anything to him, something about the composition of amines in a particular substance. No reason to keep it, really. He meant to add it to the TOSS box, but somehow it landed in KEEP. And wouldn't you know it, but the same thing happened with the next three notebooks he picked up.

After the better part of an hour, the table was clear. Feeling accomplished, John turned to the now crammed boxes. Well, crammed by some standards. The KEEP box was overflowing, but the TOSS box was empty, save for a pack of cigarettes he had found taped under the table. Sighing, John went back to re-evaluate the KEEP box, desperately trying to find something, _anything,_ that could go.

That's when he saw it.

A flash of movement, just out of the corner of his eye, a flick of long coat and a flash of dark curls. So quick that if he'd blinked, he would have missed it. His hands stilled, wrist deep in the detritus of the box. He'd imagined it. He _had_ to have imagined it. But what if Sherlock wasn't dead? Then the door downstairs shut with a clatter. Suddenly, John was certain. Sherlock was alive! He was coming up, and all of this had just been a nasty dream. John shot up from his chair and bolted down the stairs, only to find Mrs Hudson, struggling in with her weekly groceries.

"John! I hadn't expected you to come by this soon."

John barely heard her. "Where is he? You must have passed him on the way in!" he said frantically, trying to see around her through the open door.

"He? He who? Has Mycroft been poking around again?"

"Sherlock! You must have seen him…" She stared at him, confused. "Come, Mrs Hudson, he was just here! I _saw _him!"

"John, please stop shouting," Mrs Hudson said gently. John hadn't realised he'd been raising his voice.

"He was _here!_ I saw him! He isn't dead!"

She gave him a pitying look. "When my mother died, I still saw her everywhere. For weeks and weeks, I'd come home and –"

"This isn't the same! He's alive! He was here! Maybe it's for a case…" John trailed off as his phone rang and he scrambled to answer it. He almost convinced himself it was Sherlock calling. "Hello?" he asked eagerly.

"John, you're scaring Mrs Hudson." Mycroft, he realized with disdain. The tosser had bugged their flat. _Again_. Wait, Mycroft!

"Mycroft! I saw him! He's alive. Use your CCTV or something. Tell him it's okay to come home!"

"John, I want you to step outside and into the car that's waiting for you." John bolted from the house. Mycroft must know. Maybe Sherlock was even in the car waiting for him. Hell, he wouldn't even be angry, just so long as his friend wasn't really dead.

Sherlock wasn't in the car, only Mycroft. "Where is he?" he asked quickly, hardly able to contain himself.

"John, we buried Sherlock in Sussex three days ago. He's gone," Mycroft said softly, his face passive.

"No. No, no, no. I saw him, in the flat, not ten minutes ago."

"I assure you, you did not." The car began to move.

"Where are you taking me?"

"Back to your home. I think it best if you keep clear of Baker Street - for a while, at least. It may be your flat, but I think it would be better if I had it tidied out for you."

"You can't just wipe him away, like he didn't exist!" John protested sharply.

"We can't go on like he's still here either." Mycroft's voice was gentle but firm, defying all argument. The rest of the drive was spent in complete silence.

His room, when he entered it, was quiet and still. It could never be as dynamic, or as much of a home as Baker Street. But he couldn't go back there now. It would always be _their_ place. God, he sounded like a spurned lover. It shouldn't be like this, and yet it was. It was like being fresh from Afghanistan all over again. Broken, alone, and unsure of what to do. Thinking back to those first few weeks, he touched his Browning lightly where it sat in his desk drawer. It would be so simple to just end it all. To make none of it matter anymore. What would Sherlock think? What would he say? He would say to stop being so sentimental.

John set the gun down and called Ella, rescheduling again the appointment that he had yet to keep.

* * *

It was pouring rain outside. The very sound of the drops made John feel weary, a bone-deep ache. He knew he looked awful. He could see it reflected back at him in Ella's eyes, but how he looked was nothing compared to how he felt.

"Why today?" she asked.

"Do you want to hear me say it?" Something in her eyes said yes, but out loud she didn't reply.

"Do you read the papers?" He felt angry. He was reminded, again, why he stopped going to therapy in the first place.

"Sometimes," she answers. Her face is passive.

"And you watch telly. You know why I'm here." Oh god, he could feel the tears welling up. There has been far too much crying on his part in the last few weeks, more than in the rest of his life combined. He takes a deep breath. "I am here because –" and his voice cracked. Damn.

"What happened, John?" She's leaning forward.

"Sher – " There is nothing he can do to stop the tears now.

"You need to get it out."

"My best friend - Sherlock Holmes - is dead." He says it haltingly, and shakily, and the tears come as soon as he has finished. Something about saying it, that way, made it final. It was over. He was gone.

She held out some tissues, and waited for him to compose himself a bit before continuing. "There's stuff you wanted to say, but didn't say it."

"Yeah." His voice was still hoarse. There were so many things.

"Say it now."

He blinked. "No. Sorry, I…can't."

"John, it's just like before. You need to get it out."

"They're things I have to say to him."

"Why don't you?"

"I nearly lost it just being in the flat we shared."

"Get it all out. Say it to someone. This is why I suggested the blog."

"Lot of fat good that did."

"I rather enjoyed your posts."

"I doubt there will be more."

"How are you planning on moving on, John?" Ella asked softly after a moment, abandoning the blog argument for another time.

"I hadn't put much thought into it."

"What did you do last time?"

"Soldiers aren't supposed to have feelings. Stiff upper lip and that rot. You can't seriously be recommending it as a _coping mechanism_."

"I'm worried about you in the short-term. We can work past that in the long-term, but for right now, we need to get you through this."

At the end of the hour, he stepped outside and phoned Mrs Hudson, looking up at the sky as the rain fell. He wasn't honestly sure that all the wetness on his face was from above.

"Mrs Hudson, I was wondering if you might want to go see Sherlock with me. I don't want—" He sucked in a deep breath. "I don't want to go alone."

"Of course, dear. Tomorrow afternoon?"

* * *

Mrs Hudson had brought flowers. Would Sherlock have even liked flowers? There certainly weren't any around the flat. They made the cab smell nice, though, as it manoeuvred down the twisting roads to the Sussex graveyard. The grave was well into a cemetery filled with the ancestors of the Holmes family, Sherlock's tucked just next to the father he had never spoken of. His tombstone was stark, standing out, onyx-black, amid the rows of pale, worn white marble. It only held his name - no date or epitaph to speak of.

"Mycroft came by and we packed up all of his things," Mrs Hudson commented after a moment. "There's all the _stuff_, all the science equipment. I left it all in boxes. I don't know what needs doing. I thought I'd take it to a school. Would you?" She looked at him expectantly.

John thought about it for a moment. "I can't go back to the flat again. Not at the moment." He was sure he'd end up running the things over to Bart's eventually, but not today. "I'm angry." He could feel the emotion bubbling to the surface, but fought it down.

"It's okay, John. There's nothing unusual in that. That's the way he made _everyone_ feel," she assured him. That wasn't what he'd meant _at all_."All the marks on my table; and the _noise_! Firing guns at half past one in the morning-"

"Yeah." The memories now just made him sad.

"Bloody specimens in my fridge. Imagine. Keeping bodies where there's food!"

"Yes." John heard her voice waver. If she broke, so would he, and he didn't think he could handle that again today.

"And the fighting! Drove me up the wall with all his carryings-on!" He had to stop her before she took them both over the edge.

"Yeah, listen. I'm not actually _that_ angry, okay?"

It did the trick.

"Okay. I'll leave you alone to, er, you know." She gestured at the headstone and reached for her handkerchief; she was definitely sobbing as she walked away. He watched for a moment to make sure she was gone, and then turned back. Right. Now or never. Like Ella said, get it all out.

"Um. You... you told me once that you weren't a hero. Um. There were times that I didn't even think you were human. But let me tell you this, you were…the best man and the most human...human being that I have ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, and so...there." He finished lamely. He moved to walk away, but felt pulled back. That wasn't all that he had to say. "I was so alone, and I owe you so much. But please, there's just one more thing, one more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't. Be. Dead. Would you do that, just for me? Just stop it, stop this..."

He reached out to touch the cold stone. One tear rolled out of his eye. The last tear he would shed for Sherlock Holmes, he decided right then. He stepped back and assumed his military posture, gave Sherlock a mental salute. As he walked away, he felt his leg twinge in a way it hadn't in 18 months. Yes, Sherlock Holmes was definitely gone.


	4. Back to Normal

**Beta'd by WhirligigSwirl**

July

John didn't get out much anymore. The amount of time he was spending in the house was honestly a bit extreme. He had always been a social person, but it couldn't be denied that he was also a bit of a homebody. His hermit-like ways weren't helped by his steadily increasing reliance on his cane. He was able to get around without it in a pinch, but the pain grew worse with each passing day, and he found himself reaching for it more and more. And he was lonely. There was no other word for it. He needed company, and soon.

Truth be told, his social circle had never been large, but it was even smaller now, as most of the people he had considered his friends a year or two ago were still in Afghanistan (_Or dead_, his mind whispered.). The thought consumed him. A medical discharge made him unfit for service, and the army would never let him back because of it. The military was easy to live in because there was nothing to worry about. They took care of you, provided food, clothes, a place to live. On top of that, the friendships he made there were deep and strong, rivalling all but his friendship with Sherlock. However, he hadn't spoken to his army friends in months.

He decided to take a walk. It was slow going, because of his leg, (which _wasn't really hurt, _he reminded himself) as he hobbled to the park. At least the hand tremor hadn't returned along with it. It was a hot, sunny day, and the surrounding area was full of people walking their dogs and children playing. He sat on a bench, enjoying the heat and the sounds of life around him. An hour passed, then two. Finally, he decided it was time to go home. As he was making his way back to his bedsit, he passed the Criterion Café. With a pang, he remembered Mike Stamford. The friend who was always there, the one who always remembered to call on your birthday. Without a second thought, he pulled out his mobile and dialled.

"Stamford."

"Hi, Mike. It's John."

"John! I was beginning to think you were dead." Stamford, although a fantastic mate, never really developed the correct amount of tact.

"Ha, no. Still here. Listen, d'you want to grab a pint sometime this week? Maybe catch the match?"

"A drink would be great. How's Friday? I know it's short notice. I hope you don't have anything else on."

"Eh, no, no. I'm free. Six?"

"Sure. Meet you at the Triangle?"

"Great. See you then."

* * *

John arrived at six o'clock sharp, to find that Mike was already sitting at the bar, nursing a pint and ogling the far-too-young-for-him barmaid. "Sometimes it feels like nothing has changed," John said contemplatively, sliding onto the stool next to him. The Triangle had been Stamford's favourite place when they were lads at school. It was close to Bart's, but not so close that all the patrons were students. John was secretly relieved that they weren't the oldest people in the place, either.

"Don't I know it. The kids who come through Bart's are all the same, bright things that they are."

"That used to be us," John replied.

"Eh, not anymore. Ancient history." John frowned. He had been feeling older than usual lately, and the cane certainly didn't help. Suddenly a sly look came over Mike's face. "Say, have you been working?"

"Er, uh, no. Not lately, anyways. I'm sure something will come up." Mike's smile broadened.

"There's a post at Princess Grace! They're looking for GPs! I think it's close to your flat."

"It's not close to my flat at all," John responded without thinking. Mike shot him a strange look. What- oh. It was close to 221B.

"Maybe not there, then, but I have know people who are looking for a good GP. If you're keen, maybe you can get on as a surgeon."

"I've been out of work for a while."

"You've been out for a while before- !"

"I'll look into it. Thanks, Mike." John cut in quickly. He tried to guide the conversation away from the topic of his work. "So…how about this match?"

Mike had played rugby with him at when he was Bart's, long before his war wounds to make it impossible to take a tackle well. It had been a long time since John had watched a game. Sherlock had dismissed sporting events as mindless drivel, and was inclined to complain loudly whenever John tried to watch. This was a nice change.

By the end of the night, the pair had had quite a bit to drink, and John's head was buzzing. When the match was over, they staggered out into the street and John poured Mike into a cab as Mike said his farewells. "Don't forget to be looking for that job. Do ya good," he slurred.

"Sure thing, Mike. Night."

John took a deep breath of the night air, electing to grab the tube home. It wasn't all that far, and he was feeling short on cash, _even though you have Sherlock's fortune_, his mind supplied. Either way, he headed off towards the station, knowing full well that a job was nowhere near the top of his list of priorities.

* * *

September

The following weeks were, to John's relief, less lonely than the days just after Sherlock's death. John had reined in his pride at last and had started emailing back and forth with his old army mate, Bill Murray. Murray was still in Afghanistan, and John was almost able to live vicariously through his stories of patrols and long days in the wartime. John made it a point to go out with Stamford at least once a week, on Fridays, establishing a tentative connection again. Mike had stopped nagging him about getting a job three weeks in, and started instead a new line of inquiry: "We have _got _to get you a girl, John Watson". John couldn't say that he enjoyed that topic anymore than he did the job argument. He had been feeling remarkably less charming as of late. Still, it was easy enough to wave that off.

Every Tuesday, like clockwork, he called Mrs. Hudson for tea. Each time, she tried to persuade him to come to her place, and every time he refused, choosing instead to meet somewhere far from Baker Street and the memories locked inside. This time, however, was different. Today, he agreed to have tea in her flat.

It had taken ten weeks of thrice-weekly therapy for John to be able to return to 221B. The thought of doing so no longer gave him heart palpitations. A new term was starting up at Barts, and he had decided that today was the day that he would return all the science equipment that Sherlock had nicked from the hospital over the years. John knew it would be hard to let go of things that were such a big part of his memories of Sherlock, but Ella had said that it may be time to do so, and he couldn't help but agree.

After tea with Mrs Hudson, John limped up the stairs to 221B. As he walked into the flat for the first time in months, he almost choked on the feelings that washed over him. The room was familiar, but everything seemed wrong. The décor and furniture was still the same, practically untouched, but everything personal had been packed into a mountain of cardboard boxes. Labels like **Sherlock Journals **and **Sherlock Clothes** jumped out at him from their sides, making his eyes feel slightly damp. A lump formed in his throat.

The box of Sherlock's hospital equipment, at least, was easy enough to locate, placed near the door and marked **Bart's** in thick black writing. Mycroft (or whoever he had got to do the boxing) had probably known that the items would be returned eventually. Even though it was just the one box, there was so much equipment that the top wouldn't close. The microscope that had "Property of St. Bart's" etched into the side poked conspicuously out over the top. John hefted the box and made his way towards the door. Balancing it carefully on one knee, he flicked off the light, and left 221B, and if he wasn't wholly sane when he closed the door, at least he wasn't a nervous wreck.

Bart's wasn't so far away that he couldn't walk, but the added weight of the box pained his leg terribly, so he hailed a cab instead, electing to splash out a little on the fare.

Unfortunately, John hadn't thought about how much Bart's itself would affect him. The last time he had been here, it had been shortly after the Sherlock's fall. Walking through those doors was immensely painful, but he pushed through it. It was more like a dull ache that sat in his bones than the sharp pain he would have expected. John walked to the receptionist and, taking a deep breath, placed the box on the counter. "Hi, I've a few things I'd like to donate." The receptionist was an attractive brunette, tall, slender, and exactly his type. Once upon a time, he might have flirted with her. But not today.

"Sure, I'll just ring for someone to pick them up. Pathology might want them. They're always complaining that they're short on something!" she said brightly, picking up the phone. she glanced past him, then set the phone down again. "Oh, there's one now! I'll just give it to her. Doctor Hooper?"

John turned abruptly. It's Molly. Of course, he was in Bart's, he _would_ run into Molly. Grand. Just grand. Sod it all.

"John!" Molly says in surprise, eyes wide. "How have you been?"

"Er." He stumbles, "I'm just dropping off a few things. Donations. Here." He indicates the box.

"Thank you," she says, still looking at him cautiously. "No one thinks to give the dead new microscopes!" She laughed nervously, obviously trying to lighten the mood.

"See you later," John says, at the same time Molly says "Want to grab a cuppa"

"Yes," they both say with more nervous laughter.

* * *

The hospital had a cafeteria that was bustling and loud, filled with doctors, nurses, the sounds of pagers going off and hurried conversations being had. John had already sat down when Molly returned with a pair of flimsy Styrofoam cups. "Coffee only, I'm afraid."

"That's fine," John replied, smiling tightly.

"I'm so sorry John," she said, sitting down. She gave him a long look full of a pained hardness that he didn't quite understand.

"Me too." He took a large gulp of coffee. "Black with two sugars," he muttered, more to himself than Molly. "It always comes back to him. Always."

"I miss him too. Even though he was awful most of the time," she said softly.

John chuckled a little. "He _was_ awful, wasn't he?"

"I didn't even get the worst of it," she giggled. "Remember that time he shot the Cluedo board?"

"The police actually turned up for that one! Not so good when it's _my_ gun he's firing." Molly was giggling. It sounded lovely.

"When I'd just started at Bart's, he used to abuse the old head of pathology. Switch labels on vials, move everything two inches to the left in his office… the man quit!"

John was grinning widely, but his smile faded a little at the thought that crossed his mind. "It's so nice to be able to think about him without feeling sad."

Her smile faded too. "I know." She reached out tentatively for his hand. He noticed that she was wearing the same lipstick that she had once tried to charm Sherlock with.

"Did you…er…want to grab a drink sometime?"

She immediately pulled her hand back. "Oh, John, I'm sorry, please don't think…no, I'm so sorry."

"It's fine," he said dejectedly, waving it off.

"No, no. We should do something together sometime. Just…not like that. Oh god. I'm so sorry."

"Sure. Maybe coffee again next week?" He could pencil her in right between Mike and Mrs Hudson. Ella would be so pleased.

"I've got to get back to work. I'll call." She got up and threw out her only half-finished drink, flashing him a smile before disappearing out the cafeteria doors. John sat alone for a few minutes longer, finishing the last bit of his coffee. Maybe Mike was right. Maybe he should step up his game, date a little. Maybe, just maybe, it was time to find a job. Time to move on.

* * *

John spent the next four days scouring the internet. He printed up new CVs and hit every hospital and clinic that was hiring. Out of thirty-two, he garnered six interviews. He struck out for the high street to hunt up a new wardrobe. Part of moving on was leaving the past behind, and all the worn jumpers that had been with him since before his deployment had to go. He purchased five new button-downs, three pairs of smart trousers, and allowed himself two new jumpers, both far more fashionable than any he had owned before. Sure, it wasn't Sherlock's level of chic, but the new clothes helped to make him look more professional.

The interview at Princess Grace was the only one where he really felt likely to get the job- they were in need of a day surgeon. It was exactly what he was looking for: 9-5, five days a week, on-call for when they needed another pair of hands, and the possibility of promotion if he impressed them sufficiently. John didn't need to be asked twice when they offered him the job. He'd start on Monday. They didn't even mind the cane.

As he left the hospital, John pulled out his mobile and texted Mike the good news. He felt on top of the world. After weeks of crippling depression, things were starting to look up, and not a moment too soon. He decided to walk home, thinking about how conveniently close his new job was as he went.

He was trotting along, appreciating the warm autumn day, when he heard a familiar voice. "—and Anderson, you be damn careful with that evidence, we can't afford a lick of contamination." Bloody hell. He'd stumbled on a crime scene, complete with police tape, Anderson, and Lestrade. He slowed. He hadn't talked to Greg since that day in June, and while he was still angry with him, it had diminished to a low burn in his gut. Lestrade turned around to face the small crowd of passerby that had gathered. "Nothing to see folks," he started, then spotted John standing near the front of the crowd. "John?" Greg was coming over now. He lifted the police tape, beckoning John to enter. John didn't budge an inch. "Did you, er, want to have a look?"

"God, no," he replied quickly, taking a step back.

Greg looked surprised. "I figured since you were by, you must have stolen a police scanner or something," _Did Sherlock do that in the beginning? _John wondered absently.

"Er, no. I was over at Princess Grace. Job interview."

"Oh. Great. Did you get it?" Greg asked awkwardly, pocketing his hands.

"Yeah. Yeah, I did."

"That's great John! Glad to hear it."

"Thanks. I guess I'll just... be going now." He made to leave, but Greg grabbed his arm.

"Did you want to grab a drink?"

No. "Sure," he responded instead, half-heartedly. Jesus. Everybody and their dog wanted to hang out. Not that John was opposed to the company. And Greg… they had been friends, before all the shite with Moriarty and 'Richard Brook'. Maybe they could be again. Greg smiled and let him go. John walked quickly back to his flat in silence.

This was what normal people did. They had friends. They went out. They built social calendars. It wasn't what Sherlock had done, and it wasn't what he had done with Sherlock in his life. That's when he realised that, slowly but surely, he had begun the ease back into to normal civilian life. It felt good, he thought, like a warm hug on a cold day. John sighed. This was how it was meant to be, but something was still missing.


	5. A Bitter Drink

John had been dreading the idea of grabbing a drink with Greg all week. He had nearly cancelled after Greg postponed their meet up from 6 pm to 10, but John didn't want to be the one to call things off. He wasn't upset at the Yard, not anymore, anyway. It would be hard to settle back into old habits though.

They met at a pub near NSY. It was a quiet and clean place, not at all like the Triangle. John got there first and sat down at the counter, hooked his cane over his knee, ordered a rum and coke, and downed it as fast as he could. By the time Greg arrived five minutes later, he had ordered a pint for each of them and felt a bit more relaxed from his first drink. "John, sorry I had to push back a few. Big case, you know?" he said, sliding onto the stool next to him. "How have you been?"

"Good. Yes. Quite well, actually. I've got a job at Princess Grace," John replied with a small smile.

"That's great, mate!" Greg said, clapping him on the back.

"It's good. Steady, anyway. God knows it's nice to know where you're headed every day," John shrugged it off and took a pull of his drink.

"How's your sister been?"

"It's hard to say. I don't hear from her often, but if there was real trouble she'd call. How've _you_ been?"

"Good, good. Same old, same old." He took a long draught. "Donovan left. Transferred somewhere up north." John looked up at that, surprised.

"Left?" Part of John hoped that it had been because of her guilt at how appallingly she had treated Sherlock, but he knew how unlikely that was.

"Her and Anderson split, I guess. Had this big falling out." John nodded. That sounded more plausible.

"I can't say I feel too bad about that."

"She was good, most of the time. Did her job well. Anderson is still around."

"How are things with Jennifer?" John asked, changing the subject.

"Divorcing. Papers went through two months ago." Greg took a large gulp of his drink.

"I'm sorry," John spluttered, choking a bit on his beer. He wasn't sure what he had expected Lestrade to say, but that wasn't it.

"Yeah, me too, but it wasn't ever going to work out. It was all a matter of who would pull the trigger first." John shook his head in sympathy- Greg had spent a long time trying to make things work.

"Kids doing alright?" John asked. Greg had two little kids, Amanda and Joe, who were both in primary school.

"They're staying with her. The Yard's been running me ragged. I haven't seen them as much as I'd like, but you know…" Greg shrugged and took a deep pull of his pint.

"Jesus, I'm sorry Greg."

"No, no. It's fine. I think I've met someone, anyway."

"Really?"

"Yeah…I didn't want to…you know…while I was married, but I can't get her out of my head. I think it might have been my push to sit down with Jenny. You know, admit that it was over." He sighed.

"It'll end fine, Greg," John said reassuringly.

Greg nodded. "What about you?"

"No…I made a pass at a girl I know, but it didn't go over well."

"They can't all end in your favour."

"No, I guess not." They sat together in silence, sipping their drinks. It wasn't awkward like John had thought it would be, just the two of them. It was nice. Two friends, catching up. After a few minutes, Greg looked straight ahead, over the bar, gazing away from John. He took a deep breath, steeling himself. John knew what was coming and looked away, bracing himself.

"I'm sorry, John."

"Greg…"

"No, let me get it out." Another deep breath. "I need to apologise for whatever part I had in this whole mess. I know it's been complete rubbish for you. I didn't know…I didn't think it would end like it did."

"You were just doing your job." John replied quietly. He had been thinking those words for months now, but it felt different saying them. It felt like a weight had been lifted from John's heart.

"It didn't make it better." John didn't respond, simply nodded slightly in acknowledgement. "Sometimes I start to call him, when I see a case that I think he'd like. I reach for the phone to text him to come, but then I remember that he won't answer." Greg swallowed and looked down into his drink.

"Don't." John was ready to forgive, but it was another thing entirely to share someone else's pain. He was barely living with his own, and he didn't want to admit how many times in those first few weeks after he'd texted Sherlock's number, knowing that there wouldn't be a reply, that no one would read the message. Greg nodded, seeming relieved.

"I've got to go. Work tomorrow." John said, looking down at his now empty glass. "Do you want to do this again sometime?"

"Sure. I'll text you." Greg smiled. "It was nice catching up."

"Yeah. It was. I'll see you later." John grabbed his cane and made for the door, catching a cab just as it pulled up to the kerb.

* * *

Mycroft looked up in surprise as his office phone began to ring. Precious few people got through without going through his secretary or his PA, and that was assuming they knew his number at all. He picked up the phone. "Holmes." No answer. "Hello?" he tried again. Still nothing. Irritated, he hung up and picked up his pen. As soon as he set the phone down, however, it rang again. He let it ring three times before answering. "Holmes." he repeated.

"Mycroft." The deep baritone on the other end nearly caused Mycroft to fall off his chair.

"Sherlock?" he asked incredulously, hand gripping the edge of his desk in an attempt to ground himself.

He could practically hear the eye-roll when Sherlock replied, "Who else would it be?"

"I identified your corpse!"

"Obviously you were not as thorough as you thought. You are surprisingly easy to fool." Sherlock's voice dropped its sarcastic tone and became serious and business-like.

"Why?" Mycroft managed to ask as he felt his heart start to beat again, trying to wrap his head around this.

"Moriarty."

"Why would you do that to John? Oh…I see. Brilliant."

"Isn't it."

"Why call now?"

"Resources. You have them, and I do not. I'm out of cash, and I don't know how much I can take without John noticing. I also need everything you have on a few individuals." Mycroft could hear movement, and he could almost see him pace, hand on hip.

"Money isn't a problem. Who do you need dossiers on?"

"Ivan Gregor, Edward Dunnigan, Thomas Parker, and Sebastian Moran."

"How would you like me to get it to you?"

"Preferably by a very discreet courier. I am currently staying at number 12 rue Saint-Charles in Nantes. Don't use that address after this time."

"Consider it done. You'll have them tomorrow morning." Mycroft was already making a note to have the files in question drawn up.

"How is he?" Sherlock's voice softened slightly, losing some of the sharp professional edge.

"Better. I called in a few favours to provide him steady employment, and he has a few friends he sees regularly. He's using the cane with increasing regularity, and attends therapy once a week. I know that you do not want to ask it of me, childishly, I might add, but yes. I will, and have been, keeping an eye on him."

Sherlock's breath hitched. "Thank you," he managed, voice strained.

Mycroft hesitated. "Sherlock... you should know that I played some part in your…death. I-"

"Apologise when I am no longer deceased," came the clipped reply. Before Mycroft could answer, the line went dead.

"Anthea!" he called. She came into his office, tapping away at her Blackberry without looking up. "I need the entirety of our information on Ivan Gregor, Edward Dunnigan, Thomas Parker, and Sebastian Moran. Check Interpol as well as with the Americans. I want it all." She stood to leave, still texting. "And Anthea?" She looked at him. "Upgrade Dr. Watson's security status. Level 4."

"Yes sir," she answered.

The minute the door closed behind her, Mycroft sagged. His heart was racing. He had managed to keep his cold aloofness on the phone, but now his pulse thrummed in staccato time. Sherlock wasn't six feet under. That opened a world of possibilities he didn't want to contemplate at this time. Sherlock was also probably actively committing homicide on a daily basis, a thought which made him shudder. He had the urge to call John, or to pick him up, and tell him that everything was going to be okay, but Mycroft knew that wasn't an option. It would have to wait until this was all over, one way or another.

_Dear God, I hope it ends well, for all of our sakes, _he thought, covering his face with his hands.

* * *

Sherlock had debated for hours over whether or not it was time to get Mycroft involved. On one hand, Mycroft had resources. And Mycroft owed him. It had taken him mere seconds to realize that the information Moriarty had used against him had come from none other than his brother. It couldn't have been John, because even if he'd known what Moriarty had, John was far too loyal to ever betray Sherlock. No, it had been Mycroft. He would give Sherlock what he asked now, because Mycroft was sentimental too.

On the other hand, bringing Mycroft into things meant that someone was watching him once again. It had been liberating, not having the (in this case, literal) big brother watching. Things had worked so smoothly thus far because he had been able to fly under the radar surprisingly well. Moriarty's web, although constructed to run even in his absence, was falling slowly. He had already identified eight of Moriarty's men who needed to be taken out one way or another to ensure that his friends were safe. Four down, only four to go. At this rate he could be home within a year of his death.

Despite this, what tipped the scales about going to Mycroft for help was Sherlock's concern for John. He needed to know. It was worse than he thought. John's reaction was beyond the scope of his deduction. For the first time in longer than he cared to remember, he was not sure of something. He hadn't anticipated the return of the cane. General grieving, yes, but the limp? He wished he could see John. Just for a moment.

He had made the call from inside a French café tucked away down a narrow street. Moriarty had a well-established cell outside of Paris, so it made sense for Sherlock to stay in France for the time being. He had found a nearly decrepit temporary flat with a landlord who didn't ask questions and accepted the rent in cash. Call made, he headed back to it to think about the next step in his plan. As he stepped out of the café into the blinding midday sunshine, he tossed his mobile into a bin and pulled an identical one out of his pocket. He had to make one more call.

* * *

John had barely finished paying the cabbie when his phone rang. "Doctor Watson," he answered. Now that he was working as a doctor again, he felt justified using the title.

"Thought I'd check in on my favourite doctor. You did say you preferred being phoned _on your phone_ as opposed to abduction."

"What do you want, Mycroft?" He was still agitated at the very idea of Mycroft.

"As I said, checking in. You've barely touched your bank account."

"I've gotten a job, but you'd know that already wouldn't you?"

"Now, Doctor Watson, you overestimate the resources spent on you."

"But you did know." Mycroft didn't answer, but John could hear his smirk. "Did you want something in particular?"

"I was curious as to the nature of your plans for 221B. Were you going to take up residence there once again?"

"I hadn't planned on it, no. Not for…for a while anyway."

"How illogical. But I understand. I've taken the liberty of putting all of Sherlock's effects in a storage facility. I thought it would be easier for you."

"Er…thank you?"

"It was my pleasure." John had reached his room, only to find that all of his things were missing.

"Mycroft! Where the hell are my things!?"

"You'll find them in a delightful flat conveniently located next to the Camden tube station. I chose somewhere that would be convenient for you to commute."

"Somewhere easily spied on, you mean."

"John, come now. Sherlock had enemies who didn't just disappear."

John felt something akin to defeat. "If I do this, will you leave me the hell alone?"

"I thought about making it less obvious, but felt we could be transparent with each other when it comes to your surveillance status."

"I'll move. But then I don't want to hear from you again unless it's a bloody emergency."

"Of course. Now, the car is outside."

John sighed inwardly as the line went dead. Well, wherever he was going, it couldn't be worse than this place. And it would be new. A fresh start for them all.


	6. Christmas

**December**

It had been a few months since John had moved into the new flat. If anything could be said, it was that Mycroft (or maybe Anthea or some other minion?) had truly exquisite taste. If 221B had been the essence of Sherlock, Camden House was John. At the same time though, it wasn't personal. The only piece that really was unique to John was a framed photograph of him and Sherlock sitting on the mantel. Everything else looked comfortable, slightly lived in, but purchased out of a catalogue. It was also on the ground floor and within fantastic walking distance of the tube, which meant his limp was in better shape than it had been in months. It had plain colours, no frills, and it was easy to think of as home. He couldn't have picked a better place. He couldn't even tell where the cameras were, although he knew they were there. Occasionally, he would pop out to the store and notice a black car sitting by the kerb, but he was never urged to get in.

The job at Princess Grace was good. He enjoyed the work. It wasn't particularly daring, but it was nice to go in every day and have something to do. It kept his mind off of everything else. John had even been permitted to help out on a few more complicated surgeries, and during a particularly nasty rainstorm, had been asked to help patch up more than one auto collision trauma victim in A&E. His boss had even hinted that if he kept it up, he would be heading for a promotion soon. He had continued to keep up with Lestrade, Mike, Bill Murray, and Mrs Hudson. He had even seen Molly on four separate occasions. This, he thought, it what it felt like to be ordinary.

The weather that had been so pleasant turned bitterly cold only a couple of weeks before December broke. The work at the hospital consisted mostly of bad colds and under-the-weather elderly folks, which was why he was surprised to see Molly outside his office on a particularly nasty day. "Oh Molly! How have you been?"

"Hi John. I just happened to be in the area. I wanted to invite you to my flat for some drinks. Christmas, you know. Last year we did yours, so I thought we could do mine this go around. There will be lots of people there." John hadn't really thought about what he was doing for Christmas. Harry was back on the sauce, so it was probably for the best that he didn't go there. He was planning on spending Boxing Day with Mrs Hudson, but otherwise didn't have any other plans. A Christmas without a single party seemed sad.

"Sure. What day were you thinking?"

"The twentieth at eight." John flicked through his appointment ledger.

"Great. I won't be able to stay long. I have patients booked in for the next morning. It sounds great though, Molly. Who's all going?"

"Greg, Mrs. Hudson, some friends of mine from here and there, people from Bart's. You know Mike Stamford, I think. He's invited."

"Excellent. See you then?"

"Definitely. Take care, John." She gave him a long look before she swept out.

The twentieth crept up on John before he knew it. He took the tube to Molly's place. She lived much farther from Bart's than he did, exacerbated by the fact that the train was running behind. He was going to be late. Very late. Looking at his watch, he would really only have time for a drink or two before it was time to leave. At long last, he arrived, and it was with increasing trepidation he approached the door. Last Christmas had been a fiasco. Molly had gotten her feelings hurt. Irene had been found "dead". It had been a danger night. It was distinctly Sherlock. As much of a fiasco as it had been, it had still been exactly what life with him was like. John had often heard that the holidays after a close death were the worst. When he lost his parents, it hadn't felt like that. But now. _Now. _He felt a pang deep in his chest that felt like losing him all over again.

Greg answered the door. He was wearing a spectacularly awful Christmas jumper that featured an anthropomorphic Christmas tree. "Greg!" He said. Greg followed his line of sight.

"Yeah, I know. Molly picked it out. Count yourself lucky there isn't one for you." He grabbed John's jacket as he walked in, tossing it haphazardly onto an already overloaded coat rack.

John walked through the hall to the den, which was spacious but every available space was completely packed with people. Christmas carols played low in the background, and everyone was talking boisterously with a drink in their hand. John saw some people he knew, but lots of unfamiliar faces were scattered across chairs, tables, and couches. He saw Mrs Hudson deep in conversation with a doctor he recognized from Bart's.

Molly walked over and pressed a drink into his hand. She was wearing a silver-spangled dress and looked simply beautiful. John opened his mouth to tell her how fantastic she looked when Greg walked over and slid an arm around her waist. She leaned into his touch. John's mouth snapped shut. They both seemed to notice.

"You didn't tell him," Molly said, looking at Greg pointedly.

"I meant to, but you know...shit John, yeah. Me and Molly." He cleared his throat nervously with a small cough, looking away.

"Er yeah, great." John said awkwardly. Just then there was a rap on the door. Molly skipped off to answer. The moment she was gone, Greg launched into an explanation, rattling off words a mile a minute.

"I meant to tell you, I really did. She's brilliant, and she's not Jennifer at all."

"Really, Greg, it's fine. I'm happy for you. _Really_." He insisted at Greg's sceptical look. "Can we talk about sometime that isn't...now?" Greg nodded, as Molly returned with a woman in tow.

"John, this is my cousin Mary." Molly said by way of introduction.

"I'm going to go grab a drink," said Mary, moving away.

"No, no, here take mine!" Molly replied quickly, handing her a glass of wine. "Greg, why don't we go bring out the fruitcake. _From the kitchen._"

"Molls, I hate fruitca—" She glared at him as much as Molly was capable of glaring. "Right. Yeah. Fruitcake." Greg gave John a long look as he headed off into the hall.

The family resemblance between Mary and Molly was clear. They both had the same fair skin, rosy cheeks, and general air of trustworthiness. Mary was taller than him although not by much, with hair that was blonde bordering on red.

"Subtle, aren't they?" she said with a less than subtle eye roll.

"Ha yeah. Greg isn't particularly good at subtle. I had thought better of Molly though."

"Sorry, our introduction was a bit rushed. I'm Mary, Mary Morstan."

"John. Doctor John Watson."

"A doctor? What kind?" she sounded genuinely interested.

John cleared his throat. "I used to be in the army, doing some trauma work."

"Is that how you hurt your leg? The army, I mean."

"Yeah, Afghanistan," he said with a cough.

"And what do you do now?" He was grateful that she didn't linger on the subject.

"Old ladies with the sniffles mostly." She laughed. It was a refreshing sound. John grinned. "What about you?"

"I'm a primary school teacher."

"How old?"

"A lady never tells, Dr. Watson." Mary replied with a wink.

"I meant the kids," John grinned.

"The ones in my class are about seven. They keep me busy."

"I imagine they would."

"Little hell raisers sometimes. It's easy to let them get out of hand."

"I'm sure you can manage it." John smiled at her. Mary was charming. She had a way of making him feel at ease immediately. They bantered a little back and forth. Mary and Molly had always been close, almost like sister, John discovered, although they saw less of each other now that they were both working. She didn't particularly like the school that she worked at, but she was having trouble finding a position elsewhere. Before they knew it, half an hour had gone by. "Your drink's gone. I'll grab you another." He offered politely.

"Are you trying to get me drunk, Doctor?" She replied, a smile in her voice.

"John, please. And I usually wait until the third date for that."

"A third date! Why don't we start with a first date and go from there?"

"Are you asking me out?" He quirked a half-smile.

"John, that's precisely what I'm doing." At that moment John noticed that Greg and Molly had slipped back into the room.

"Excuse me for a moment," he said, moving towards them. Molly saw John approaching and moved towards Mary. "So Mary, eh?" John asked the DI. "What exactly are you two playing at?"

"You're having a great time with her."

"That is beside the point, and you know it."

"I haven't seen you look like that since _before_. Molly just thought you needed a little prodding. And Mary is a delight."

"Yeah, she is." John paused slightly. "Greg..."

"Hm?"

"How much does she know?"

"About you? Molly said she had an attractive single friend that she should meet. As far as I know, she doesn't know anything yet. Is that a good thing?"

"Yeah, yeah it is." Greg looked back over John's shoulder as Mrs. Hudson sauntered over.

"I wanted to say hello before I had to head out. My hip, you know."

"Merry Christmas, Mrs Hudson. I'll see you for Boxing Day?"

"I won't forget." He smiled and she patted his hand before going to the coat rack.

"You ran away before I was done flirting with you," Mary said from behind him, half-joking. He turned slowly to face her.

"I suppose that was rather rude of me." Just then his mobile beeped. "Oh damn. Is that the time? I'm so sorry, I've got patients tomorrow. I have to get home."

"Where do you live?"

"Camden. How about you?"

"Aldershot, but I'm here tonight. Probably kip on the floor."

"You could come to my place." The words were out of his mouth before he had time to stop them. He suppressed a groan of embarrassment. "That is not what I meant. My couch is really quite comfortable."

"I know what you meant, John. I'm sure your sofa is more comfortable than Molly's floor. I'll tell her we're leaving. Can you grab my coat? It's the pink one." John stared for a moment as she went to tell Molly they were leaving. He couldn't recall the last time a girl had spent the night at his flat. Months. Years. He could see Mary talking to Molly, who looked equal parts bemused, shocked, and pleased. Mary smiled at him and he went to grab their coats, simultaneously checking to make sure he had enough cash for a cab.

Mary appeared next to him, and he helped her into her jacket. "Ready to go?"

"Definitely." Greg and Molly said their goodbyes, thanking them both for coming. Greg gave John a meaningful look as they made their way out of the door. Subtle indeed.

Luckily, Molly's flat was on a main street, so it was easy to flag a taxi. John gave the cabbie the address as they headed off.

They sat in awkward silence for a few long minutes. Then, haltingly Mary snaked her hand onto John's thigh. He looked slowly down at her hand, then up at her, leaning in slightly. She smiled at him slyly, as she closed the gap, pressing her lips to his.

It was gentle and languid. They went slowly at first, but with the hint of urgency one can only get from snogging in the back of a cab. She nipped gently at his bottom lip as he opened his mouth, deepening the kiss. Their tongues slide against each other. Her hand on his thigh traced small circles, moving upward until..."Stop. Mary, stop." She pulled away immediately.

"I'm sorry, did I misunderstand...am I being too forward?

"No, no. I just...I don't want this to be a onetime thing." Mary slid down in her seat a little, tucking herself neatly against John's shoulder so that his arm was wrapped around her. She placed a kiss against his neck.

"John, I don't think one night will be nearly enough."


	7. Fumbling in the Dark

Mary spent the rest of the ride to John's flat nestled into his side. John had never really been one to cuddle. His views on the matter consisted of being physically close to someone as means to an end, the end being a trip to his bedroom. However Mary's presence was soothing, nearly therapeutic in effect and John had meant it when he said that this wasn't meant to be a frantic tussle and an awkward morning after.

Silence had fallen over them again, but it wasn't the same ill-at-ease quiet as it had been before. Instead it was peaceful, comfortable. It was the silence that remained when nothing needed to be said.

The cab stopped outside the flat, and John thrust a handful of notes at the driver. He then proceeded to help Mary out of the car, stumbling on the kerb.

Inside the flat, John was cursing his decision not to tidy up beforehand. The debris of his life as a bachelor was strewn all over the kitchen table. Books, takeaway containers, used forks. Mary didn't seem to mind, and appeared to be making herself at home, throwing her coat onto a hook and toeing off her heels. Hanging his cane on the back of a chair, John puttered about, trying to clean a little while Mary watched with a bemused expression. "What's the plan, Doctor Watson?"

"Same as every night, I guess. A cuppa and then turn in."

"I wouldn't say no to a cuppa." She gave him a high-voltage smile.

They chatted about the children at Mary's school while John made tea. As they sipped from their cups, John quirked a smile as she confessed, embarrassed, about match making playmates in her class that she thought would make adorable couples in the future. "They'll thank me one day. Fifteen years from now I'll be invited to a dozen weddings every summer."

As John cleared away the mugs, Mary slipped away into the den. It was there John found her looking intently at the photo of him and Sherlock. She looked at him as he padded into the room. "That's er my friend. Colleague."

The look she gave him made his heart skip a beat. "I have a confession John." His blood ran cold. His mind was imagining all sorts of things she would feel the need to disclose now. She was married. Or a raging alcoholic. Maybe a crack addict. "When I walked into that room at Molly's, I knew exactly who you were. I read your blog regularly for nearly a year. And if not that, it's hard to miss the papers." That was not what he had been expecting at all, but in hindsight, he realized, he probably should have. He squared his jaw.

"And?"

"And if you want to talk about him, it's okay." She made to slide her hand into his, but he promptly pulled it away.

"Yeah, I bet you do. Kitty Riley isn't the only one who can come up with a good news story, right?" he spat. He was feeling immensely upset for being naive enough to bring a near-stranger home.

"No, no. John, that's not what I meant at all." Mary looked stricken. She bit her lip. "I meant that...I believe in him too." When John didn't reply, she continued. "Molly is convinced that he was the real thing." A lump had formed in his throat.

"He was the real thing."

"It's okay John." It really wasn't, but this time, when she touched his hand, he didn't pull away. He also didn't stop her when she tilted her lips to meet his. He returned her kiss with enthusiasm, his hand lacing through the hair at the nape of her neck, toying with the bump of her vertebra.. This time she was the first to break away. "Can we...er-"

"Bedroom?"

"Bedroom."

John had done this before, but it had been so long ago that it may as well have been the first time. He took her hand and led her through to his bedroom. Although the rest of the flat was in shambles, his room was tidied with military precision. Not a sock was out of place. Mary had sat down on the edge of the bed. John pulled off his jumper, standing there in his smart trousers and button-down shirt. For a moment, neither of them did anything. Then John moved forward, descending around her, guiding her down so that she was flat on the mattress and he was on top of her, their lips crushed together. His hands wandering, across her side, neck, and breasts. One hand toyed with the hem of her skirt. She pulled away, looking him in the eye with a mischievous grin.

Mary hooked a leg around his side, and then rolled over, pinning John beneath her. She slid down his legs, fiddling with the button on his trousers in the dark. John had been hard since she had first said 'bedroom', but his arousal hit its peak as she tugged down his trousers and pants. Shit this is really happening, he thought. He sat up to remove her dress, but was rebuffed with a firm hand pushing him back down to the mattress. John chose instead leaned back on his elbows to see what she was doing, his mouth slacking open. Mary gave him a smouldering gaze before she wrapped her hand around him. There is a woman touching my cock. It is a person who is not me. Unbidden, his thoughts turned to his string of exes since the last time he got laid. He even took Sarah to New Zealand and hadn't gotten this far.

Mary ran her finger across the head of his cock, causing him to buck, his shoulders slamming against the bed. She grinned, and began stroking the base of his cock with one hand, while the other teased at his foreskin. It felt divine. John had never been quiet in bed, and tonight was no exception, moaning his approval. Her hands were smooth and soft, and he felt every turn of her fingertips. One hand slipped down, rolling his balls in her palm. It was too much, and he felt himself go.

John's face coloured. He threw a hand over his eyes, groaning in embarrassment. He felt Mary flop down to sit next to him on the bed. He lifted his arm to look at her. She looked frankly bewildered. She looked at him, her eyes clear and honest, and then started to laugh. He found himself laughing with her, giggling in fact.

"It's usually more impressive than that," he gasped, relieved that he hadn't ruined his chances. This just made Mary laugh harder.

"I'm sorry. It's fine, it's fine. I should laugh." She said, trying to straighten her face.

"I'm afraid my dress was a bit of a casualty though." Sure enough, the dark material was dampened as a result of their activities.

"I have some things you can borrow." John jumped up, pulling up his trousers to cover his rapidly fading erection. Flicking on a lamp, he rummaged through the dresser and threw her an old RAMC t-shirt and a pair of sweat pants.

"Ta. I'm looking forward to testing out your couch."

"The least I can do is take the couch." She gave him a look that plainly said neither of us will be on that couch.

Mary excused herself to the loo while John threw on some pyjamas. He glanced at the clock. It was getting late and he needed to sleep. By the time she returned, he had tucked himself in. As she sauntered into the room he didn't think he'd ever seen a damn sight sexier than Mary Morstan wearing his clothes. He clicked out the light as she climbed in next to him. She placed her hand in his, snuggling up next to him.

"This just might work," he said, but she had already dozed off.

John woke up the next morning to an empty flat. For a moment, John didn't believe that the previous night had actually happened. Sure enough, though, as he walked into the kitchen, he found a post-it stuck to the kettle.

John,

Thank you for the lovely evening.

I had to slip back to Molly's.

Text me if you want your clothes back.

MMx

Her number was scrawled at the bottom. He put the note inside drawer below the kettle and hurried off to work, completely forgetting his cane.

* * *

Molly had been drinking her fifth cup of tea when Mary had come in early the morning after the party. Greg had already left to look over a few cases that had been weighing heavily on his mind. When she heard her cousin's footfalls, she had jumped up from the table. "How did it go?" she asked anxiously.

"God Molly. You frightened me."

"Sorry. Sorry." Molly composed her face into a delightful smile. "Would you like a cup of tea?"

"How many cups have you had?"

"Not that many. Now. John."

"It was fine."

"Just fine?"

"It was! He was a perfect gentleman."

"Oh good." Molly heaved a sigh of relief. Mary however tensed.

"Was there something that you weren't telling me?"

"No," answered Molly, after a short pause.

"You're a bloody awful liar."

"John has been having a hard time lately."

"All of London knows that Molls."

"That's not what I meant-"

"What do you mean then?"

"Don't hurt him. That's all."

"Aren't you supposed to be having this conversation with him?" Mary laughed. "Now, how were things with your lovely copper?"

"I wanted to watch a Disney movie. I'm not sure we'll ever agree on what to watch."

"Did you want to watch it now?"

"It's six in the morning! Wait. Your train leaves in less than an hour!"

"...I don't have to go." Molly looked at her, shocked.

"What happened?"

"Well I was just covering for someone on maternity, and I thought certainly they'd offer me a position. It was going so well."

"You said that about the last school."

"Public schools don't agree with me."

"You can stay here if you need to. Maybe find somewhere in London to work?"

"Maybe. Did you want to watch Tangled now or not?"

"I'll make some more tea."

* * *

John walked into the examination room where his last patient of the day was allegedly waiting. Rather than Herbert Jenkins, 72, persistent chest cold that was more likely than not emphysema from years of smoking, he came face to face with Mycroft, examining the medical posters with boredom. The ever-present umbrella was propped against a chair. He held a large file folder. "Where's Mr. Jenkins?" asked John, unable to think of something wittier. Mycroft just gave him a look. "Has something happened?"

"Why would you say that?" asked Mycroft, a smirk blooming on his face.

"I've behaved, according to your standards. I didn't look for the bugs around my flat and I haven't complained once about the people that I know are tailing me."

"One can't stop in for a chat?"

"You wouldn't do that. Something happened."

"Quite the deduction, John. And here I was thinking that my brother didn't rub any of his talent off on you at all."

"Really?"

"No. I'll give you a moment to think about it." Mycroft even made a show of fiddling with his pocket watch. John was stumped. What had happened in the last 24 hours that would cause Mycroft himself to come see him? Nothing was different. He had seen the usual people...and Mary. It was only when Mycroft said "Very good, John," and snapped away his watch that John realised he must have said that part aloud.

"What about her?"

"Well, for one, while you were fumbling around in the dark, we were running extensive background checks." He indicated the folder, but didn't open it.

"And?" John had blushed at the realization that Mycroft had probably seen his fumblings, but didn't let it show in his voice.

"Mary Morstan, thirty-four years old, resident of 86 Cherry Road, Aldershot. Trained as a primary school teacher."

"How dull, Mycroft."

Mycroft however, continued. "Prefers earl grey tea, is partial to the American television programme Glee..."

"Alright stop. You made your point. What do you want?"

"Not a thing, John."

"You wouldn't leave your...batcave for nothing."

"What are your intentions with Miss Morstan?"

"I think that's none of your business."

"Will you be seeing her again?"

"She ran out wearing my shirt, and I'd like it back, so yeah. I will." Mycroft nodded absently, and began flicking through the file. Neither of them spoke for a moment. After a time, Mycroft opened his mouth to speak, and then shut it again. Taking his umbrella, he made for the door. "Good afternoon, Dr Watson."

"No, no. You tell me what is going on."

"I'll leave the file with you. You know where to find me if you have any questions." He set the file down on the exam table.

John stared intently at the folder. There, in front of him was everything there was to know about Mary Morstan. It would be easy to read through it, knowing all of her secrets. There would be no surprises, no sudden betrayal down the line. But those were things she was meant to tell him in her own time, after dinners and dating and wooing, not after one midnight tumble. He paused, then haltingly, tucked the file under his arm, walking out the door.


End file.
